The Magnificent Illusion of Shadows
by The Island Hopper
Summary: A decade has passed since the night his entire world changed in an instant. Time may dampen the pain, but not old grievances or regrets. As the curtain rises on a new threat, Drake finds the past is neither forgivable or forgettable.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The first breaths of the coming sunrise peeking over the horizon bathed the city street in an ambient haze of purples and blues. A lithe figure ran soundlessly down a suburban street lined with darkened windows and sleeping inhabitants. Without breaking his stride, he leapt, caught the top of a fence, and flung himself effortlessly into the yard it enclosed. Grabbing the lowest branch of a tree he'd come to know every inch of, he hoisted himself up through the boughs as he'd done since he was a small child; he was fairly sure he could do this in the pitch-black of night, so accustomed was he to breaking back into his own home.

He balanced on the end of the longest branch and fumbled blindly until his hand found the bottom of the window. Ever so gently, he raised the window about a foot and a half, then eased himself through the opening, coming to rest softly on the bed beneath the window. He breathed a sigh of relief, silently grateful for having returned in one piece and completely undetected. When he turned to close the window, he nearly jumped out of his skin when the lights in the room flipped on, momentarily blinding him after having spent the entire night in near-darkness.

"Jesus Christ!" he cried in a startled voice, snapping back around with a wild look, blinking hard in the bright light.

An older duck glared at him flatly, holding a steaming mug of coffee.

"I was going to offer you some coffee," the older duck said, raising an eyebrow. "But after an entrance like that, I'd say you're already wide awake."

"Geez, Gramps, you scared me," the younger figure dressed in black muttered, sinking into a sitting position on the bed.

"Until you've waited all night for your teenage grandson to come home, you don't know a damn thing about fear," the older duck told him as he handed his grandson a cup of coffee, then poured one for himself from a thermos on the desk beside the bed. The older duck took a seat in the chair across from him. "Jack, you lied to me."

"I can explain," Jack protested, using the mug of coffee to warm his freezing hands. "I _was _up here studying for my chemistry exam. Honest to God, I was."

"How many people study chemistry while running around in the city in the middle of night dressed in black?" his grandfather snapped back at him. He reached over and yanked the black knit hat from his grandson's head. "Dammit, Jack. You look like a criminal in that getup!"

"It's a disguise, Gramps, it's all I had!"

"I think the bigger question is why my only grandson is out in the middle of night to begin with, let alone what he's wearing." The older duck sighed and threw the hat on the bed next to Jack. "I feel like I've been talking to a brick wall all these years, Jack. Nothing I can say can make you stop this idiotic game."

"It's _not _a game," Jack responded somewhat darkly, looking his grandfather straight in the eye. "It wasn't a game when you were Darkwing Duck. It wasn't a game when Mom was Quiverwing Quack. And it's not a game to me, either."

At the mention of those two names, the older duck cringed noticeably. "Let's not get into this now."

"Then when? Sooner or later, we'll have to." Jack stood up and began pulling off the black sweater to reveal a black t-shirt underneath. His grandfather caught a glimpse of crimson on his upper arm, and shot out of his chair.

"Are you hurt? You're hurt. Jesus, Jack, you're hurt!"

"Relax. Just scraped my arm up a little, that's all," Jack said reservedly as he began to gather his chemistry textbooks and put them in his bag. An arm shot out, grabbed him, and began to drag him towards the bathroom. Jack protested loudly, "You've got to be kidding me! It's barely big enough for a band-aid!"

"My eyes aren't what they used to be, kid. Let's get it under the light and let you prove it to me," the older duck countered in an ornery tone.

"You got a few bumps and bruises when you were out there patrolling the streets. I don't see what the four alarm fire is about," the teenaged duck whined. Under the bright lights of the bathroom, he could see it most definitely was big enough for a band-aid, and might very well qualify for the status of needing a stitch. The older duck shot Jack a look.

Jack simpered a bit. "Guess I couldn't see it too well in the dark, huh Gramps?"

Silently, they got to work cleaning the wound and binding it up. When they were finished, Jack rolled his sleeve back down as his grandfather caught sight of the two of them in the mirror hanging over the sink, and his heart skipped a beat as it always did when he realized how like his daughter Jack looked. Drake Mallard might have once been Darkwing Duck, but he hadn't held that title in a decade, and he could see his age clearly when compared to the nineteen year old duck standing next to him. The dichotomy never ceased to amaze him; though not a drop of his blood ran in Jack's veins, they were so much alike in every other way that Drake marveled in their _not _being related. Jack had Gosalyn's eyes; her beak; her obstinate stance and willful tone of speech; but he had Drake's stubbornness and tenacity. Drake supposed that had, indirectly, come from him. Being a parent was more than just DNA, after all.

Drake sighed as he stared at the clock in the bathroom. "You had to do it today, didn't you?" he said softly, not looking at Jack. "Today, of all days, you had to do it."

Comprehension dawned on Jack and the irritated expression fell from his face. "I – I didn't realize it, Gramps. I'm sorry. Really, I am."

"Don't feed me any more lies, kid. Not today," Drake shot back gruffly, exiting the bathroom and making his limping way downstairs. Jack leaned on the doorway of the bathroom, watching Drake descend the steps.

"Wasn't lying that time, old man," Jack whispered.

The sun now shone boldly over the perfectly manicured lawns and the neat rows of houses. Drake barely noticed it as he began to mix up pancake batter, knowing that even though he sometimes got so mad at Jack he felt he could throttle the boy, he'd never send him off to class on an empty stomach. He felt, if nothing else, he owed it to Gosalyn.

Ten years ago today, Drake had been left without a daughter or a son-in-law and Jack had been left parentless. Ten years ago today, both of their worlds had imploded in a single, horrifying moment.

Drake stirred the batter angrily, his thoughts far away from the safe, bright suburban kitchen. The memories were still there. They would always be there. Every second of that night would be etched in his mind for the rest of his life. They came to him in his nightmares, they invaded his daytime thoughts, but for all the time he'd spent with the memories, they got no easier to bear.

"You want some help with that?" a voice called behind him. Startled, Drake dropped the mixing spoon. Jack shrugged and smiled a little. "You seem to be getting more on the counter and walls than the griddle, Gramps."

That smile. Every time Drake saw that smile, the image of a little red-headed girl came to him, and he couldn't help but smile back. "Help an old mallard out, eh Jack? Get the plates."

Jack dutifully set the table and dug in with relish when Drake set a plate of food in front of him. Drake sipped coffee and watched him. _Jesus, that kid can eat, _he thought to himself.

"What's the difference between a mixture and a chemical compound?" Drake asked suddenly.

Jack chewed thoughtfully for a moment before answering, "The constituents of a mixture can be separated by filtering, magnetic force or evaporation, but a chemical compound can only be separated by a chemical reaction." He beamed, a bit of syrup dripping on his left cheek.

"That was an easy one. Give me the name of an inorganic compound."

"Simple. Ammonia."

"Formula?"

"NH3."

"Boiling point?"

"Negative 33.34 degrees Celsius."

"Not bad. You might pass that test yet," Drake said with a satisfied smirk.

"I _told _you I studied." He shrugged. "College is a good cover. I'm almost glad you made me go."

Drake slammed his mug on the tabletop, startling Jack enough to make him drop his fork. "College is a good cover for _what?" _Drake growled.

"N-Nothing, Gramps."

Drake sighed. "You're going to make me lose you too, Jack. You're all I've got. You're going to make me go through that again?"

"I'm always careful," Jack said, not looking Drake in the eye as he knew his grandfather could spot bullshit from a mile away. He played with his napkin absent-mindedly. "And I never bust big criminals like you and Mom used to."

"Only because there aren't any more. The only good thing that came out of that night ten years ago is that we got them all at once." Drake shut his eyes. He remembered waking up in a hospital room, waking up to the knowledge that he'd walk with a cane for the rest of his life, waking up to never again being able to see out of his left eye, waking up to the knowledge that he'd come full circle – pain, casts, and a nine year old orphan staring at him and trying not to burst into terrified sobs. He stood up slowly, grabbing for his cane to steady himself, and put his mug in the sink. "After everything we've been through, I can't see why you'd want to continue the cycle."

Jack shook his head, trying to make sense of his thoughts. "It's just inside of me, Gramps. It always has been. I _have _to do it. You understood that about Mom. You somehow justified it about your own days as Darkwing. Why can't you do the same for me?"

"And look where it got us," Drake answered grimly. "I'm half blind. I'm been lugging this cane around with me for a decade like an old man. I wake up some mornings in so much pain I'm convinced I'm finally dying. You grew up without a mother or a father. Just for once, I'd like to try normalcy."

"Our family doesn't do normal," Jack said, grabbing his plate and putting it into the sink next to Drake's coffee mug.

"If I'd tried it, we'd still be a complete family," Drake said quietly, looking out the window behind the sink. Jack put his arm around him.

"_We're_ a family, Gramps. We're doing fine," he whispered.

"I don't want you making the same mistakes I did. Jack, if I lost you too – "

"You're not going to lose me," Jack answered defiantly, wiping his hands on a damp towel and throwing his bookbag over his shoulder. "Look, I won't go out tonight. I promise. Ok?" Drake didn't answer. Jack sighed and hugged Drake with one arm. "I gotta get to class. See you this afternoon." With that, he was gone and Drake was alone with his thoughts.

Jack had insisted on commuting to St. Canard University instead of living on campus; Drake knew his grandson felt he had to keep an eye on him, which made him feel like even more of a geezer than his sixty year old body already did. Knowing Jack was out on the streets at night, and knowing he couldn't protect his grandson like he could have when he was Darkwing Duck, kept him up waiting all of the nights Jack was away.

Childhood hadn't been easy for Jack; Drake knew that. Even if Gosalyn and Thad hadn't been killed, it still wouldn't have been a normal childhood. Drake gained some measure of comfort knowing that at the very least, Gosalyn had felt what Drake had all those years ago every time Jack begged Gosalyn to let him go along on one of her capers. As the years went on and Gosalyn had come into own in the ways of crimefighting, Drake had taken more and more of a backseat. So many injuries and knocks over the years had aged him faster than a normal duck should, so Drake had no choice but to take a less active role than he had in previous years. Oddly, he found he didn't mind too much; Gosalyn knew what she was doing and could handle most things on her own. Though he would have preferred Gosalyn have a regular job, he'd known it wasn't in her nature. It never had been.

That's why they'd gotten along so well.

In the first few weeks after his parents' death, Jack had barely spoken a word. He wasn't told much more than he needed to know – his parents died in an accident – and the shock of losing his parents seemed to numb the small boy for some time. Seeing his grandfather suddenly reduced to someone who needed help with everything from eating to dressing himself in the weeks after the accident hadn't been easy to digest, either; Jack had always known him to be strong, agile, and independent. It was almost gruesome to see his grandfather helpless. It felt like his world had collapsed completely.

Drake healed – as much as he was going to, anyway – and life resumed as much as it possibly could. Due to the very public nature of The Accident, as Jack and Drake had come to call it, St. Canard had finally learned Darkwing's true identity. Jack knew even as a small child that it was a definite no-no to so much as breathe a word of Darkwing Duck's true identity, so having Drake's name and unmasked picture splashed across the headlines had been surreal for the boy. What was most disturbing about it was that Drake didn't seem to care, or even take much interest in his sudden fame. Drake knew, rightly, that his days as a masked avenger were over. He physically couldn't pull it off anymore, and after losing Gosalyn, most of the fight in him was gone anyway. Drake was awarded custody of Jack and raised him as best he could – sent him to school, helped with his homework, took him to movies, even wrestled with him if he was having a moment of being pain-free. Jack loved Drake as much as he loved his parents, but Drake could never be a father to him; Jack remembered too much of his former life for that to happen.

Drake had been approached many times over the years to tell his story, to write it down, to make it into a movie, or at the very least do a few interviews, but the duck who'd always been his own best publicist found he couldn't so much as string a sentence together when it came to describing or justifying the life he'd led. As soon as everyone was interested, Drake lost all interest. It wasn't because his head wasn't full of thoughts, emotions and memories of his life as Darkwing Duck; it was simply too painful to share with anyone.

For ten years, he'd had to live with the knowledge that he'd inadvertently caused his own daughter's death.

Every time this thought came to him in such stark terms, Drake felt like vomiting. It was his secret, one that he'd had to bear alone, the one that ate him alive as he was trapped in the body that still held the scars of that horrific night. If it hadn't been for Jack, Drake wouldn't – couldn't – have borne it. He would have done away with himself ten years ago without an ounce of apprehension.

Someday, he'd have to tell Jack the truth.

Someday, Jack would want answers.

When that happened, Drake's day of reckoning would have come, perhaps long overdue but a karmic debt to be paid all the same. Jack would find out his secret. And Jack would hate Drake with every fiber of his being. But at least the reality would have been told and Drake could go to his grave with the knowledge that he'd given Jack the rarest gift in the world – the gift of the pure, unbridled, ugly, torturous truth.

_What a thing to inherit, _Drake thought dismally to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Drake straightened his tie in the mirror by the front door, adjusting his collar and running his hands over the lapels on his jacket, smoothing them down and brushing bits of lint off of them. Ever since his accident, he'd taken extra care with his appearance, usually only going out in a tie, even if he was only going to visit Launchpad for the afternoon. _I'm so slow crossing the street that if I get hit by a car, I want to leave a pretty corpse, _Drake had reasoned to Jack when the boy had asked why his grandfather insisted on dressing up before leaving the house. In reality, his appearance was one of the few things Drake could still control. If he couldn't control his vision or how well he could walk, he could at least control how well-groomed he looked whenever he went out.

He locked the front door behind him and began to walk towards the outskirts of town where Launchpad ran a small pilot shop in a rarely visited old strip mall. Drake wasn't entirely sure why Launchpad had felt that their city needed something like a pilot shop, and the rest of the populace seemed to feel the same way, seeing as how most of the customers Launchpad ever got were the mere curious who were not looking to buy anything. Drake had to admire his friend's spirit; he knew it didn't matter one way or another to Launchpad if he didn't sell one thing all day. What mattered was having a place to go every day, and being in a place that was stockpiled with the tools of the trade Launchpad loved so well.

This made the pilot shop an excellent spot for Drake and LP to hang out together. The dusty shelves and empty parking lots made the shop seem like a secret only the two of them knew about.

The only reason Drake forced himself to walk was because he knew he would lose whatever ability he had to walk if he did not use that ability whenever possible, but he did normally stop and rest in a park about a block away from the shop. Knowing and respecting his physical limits had been an acquired skill, one his pride still struggled with on occasion. Drake arrived at the park and plopped down onto a park bench, sighing softly, and looking across the street at the police station. He knew every square inch of that building.

The police had never taken Drake seriously, even though he was often times the only person who could apprehend any criminal shrewder than a simple pickpocket. During his prime, this had infuriated Drake, both because he didn't feel he was getting his due (and, as his own best publicist, accolades were something he longed for) and also because it made the situation seem as though the supervillains of St. Canard were somehow unimportant to the city's police force. Imagine! Supervillains, who could and had blown up buildings, kidnapped citizens, held innocents hostage, stolen what must have amounted to millions of dollars over the decades, were considered beneath the police's attention. Supervillains were the outcasts, the freaks of society, always able to instill fear but never respect (and rarely knowing the difference between the two), and it was always Drake - always Darkwing - who had to reign them in, many times without a word of thanks.

Drake scowled as he sat on the park bench watching the pigeons peck at the ground. If it hadn't been for him, one - or all - of those villains would have been running the city right now. Name even one of them - Negaduck, Megavolt, Bushroot - and _they _could have been St. Canard's ruler if it hadn't been for Drake and Gosalyn. Gosalyn had given her life to prevent such an eventuality. Drake had given the better part of his ability to live a normal life. Who the hell were the police to say that super villains weren't important?

"They are _lovely, _aren't they?" a shrill voice chirped next to him, tearing him from his thoughts.

Drake looked to his right to find an over-sized, middle aged woman sitting next to him, giving him the sort of sickly sweet smile that told him he was in for an asinine conversation. "Pigeons? 'Lovely' probably wouldn't be the adjective I'd use to describe them," Drake answered flatly, turning his attention back to the birds.

The woman laughed airily, placing a plump hand to her heart. "Goodness, no! I meant the daffodils! They're certainly out in all their splendor today, aren't they?"

"I suppose," Drake grumbled, glancing at his watch.

"I do love daffodils. This park does such a wonderful job with the flowers. It's so _uplifting. _Of course, I'm sure you can remember a time before this was a park."

"As far as I know, it always has been."

"You mean it wasn't all farmland before? Or the site of some old general store, quaint but endearing-in-that-old-fasioney-way?"

Drake slowly turned to look at her, trying his best not to let his jaw hang agape. "Just how old do you think I am?"

"The elderly have so many wonderful stories to tell," the woman cooed, cocking her head to the side and looking at him rosily. She patted his hand. "They are our link with the past. It is so important to hear their tales."

"I'm _not _an old man, madam," Drake stated with as much dignity as he could muster before climbing to his feet somewhat clumsily, refusing to use his cane in front of the woman next to him. He winced slightly from the pain but stood straight nevertheless. "And if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be before I drop dead of old age," he said sarcastically in lieu of a goodbye. Drake snatched his cane from the back of the park bench but did not use it as he lumbered away slowly, clenching his jaw as hard as he could to keep his mind off the pain.

There were days when he thought he'd almost made peace with the cane that had become like an extra appendage to him, and other days when he managed to convince himself, for a few minutes at a time, that he was Drake Mallard, goddammit, and he didn't need a stupid cane. This stubbornness could keep him going until spots appeared before his eyes and his hands became sweaty; he knew the next thing that would happen would be his legs giving way beneath him, and before that happened he normally swallowed his pride and allowed himself the use of the cane. All things considered, it was better than collapsing in a painful heap on the sidewalk.

A small jingle from the bell above the door alerted LP to someone's presence in his shop. Looking up, he found his oldest friend smiling back at him. Without a word, LP grabbed a cold beer from the small fridge behind the counter, popped the lid off, and held it out for Drake. Drake took it gratefully and carefully lowered himself into a chair beside the one LP always used.

"The idiots are on parade today," Drake observed as he took a swig from the bottle. "Of course, when aren't they?" 

"People in the park again, eh?" LP responded knowingly, sliding into his own chair beside Drake. "You shouldn't take it so hard, DW. They aren't trying to be rude."

Drake had always wished he could be the hopeless optimist that his friend was and gave him a small smile. "They do a pretty good impression of it, then," Drake said. He turned to LP. "I don't look like an old man to you, do I?"

"If you're an old man, what would that make me?" LP answered rhetorically with a shrug.

"That doesn't really make me feel much better," Drake said with a sigh as he took another sip. "Trying to keep up with Jack is hard enough without feeling like I'm ancient."

LP glanced nervously at the calendar by the desk and fiddled clumsily with his hands. "I'm glad you came today, DW. I was wondering if you'd feel up to it."

Drake followed his friend's line of sight and caught the date. He swallowed hard. "I can't act like this day doesn't exist, LP. I can't ignore it. It wouldn't be fair to anyone, especially Gosalyn and Thad."

LP had noticed there were greeting cards for every occasion. Births, deaths, birthdays, anniversaries - he'd even seen one once for reincarnations. But he'd never seen one for coping with the ten year anniversary of your daughter's death. He placed a hand on DW's shoulder, knowing that his friend didn't like affection, but sensing that, perhaps this once, it would be all right.

"I'm real sorry, DW. That's all. Just real sorry. I know you miss her."

"Don't you?"

"We all do, DW."

"I still dream about her," Drake said so softly that LP almost didn't catch it. Drake's eyes could have bored holes into the glass bottle he was holding, his expression stormy and far away. "She comes to me in my dreams and tells me things. That's not normal, is it?"

"I don't know," LP answered honestly.

Drake found that, despite all of his protestations about getting older, no matter how hard mentally he tried to fight it, he could feel age begin to conquer him, a little at a time. This didn't worry him as much as frighten him. Alone at night, as he lay in bed staring up at the ceiling when sleep wouldn't come, he wondered why the thought of death scared him so much more than it used to when he stared it in the face on a regular basis. Perhaps it was because he'd very nearly lost his life. Perhaps it was because he'd watched his daughter lose hers. But deep down, he knew that wasn't it; it was much deeper and more complicated than that. His purpose in this life had not yet been completed. His duties were not done. And yet, his body had begun to fail him, betray him, and deny his demands of it. When he needed his strength, his agility, his finesse the most, would he be able to do whatever it was he had to do? Would he meet death before he'd accomplished everything he needed to do in this life?

The thought, when it came to him, would keep him up all night.

Drake shook himself from his thoughts. No one would understand it if he tried to explain it, and there was no sense in worrying the few people he had left to care about in his life. "Sorry, LP. Sometimes my thoughts get the best of me."

"No worries, DW," LP said in what he hoped was a cheerful voice. Over the last ten years, he'd watched his best friend transform into someone he almost didn't recognize; preoccupied with his memories, angry about things he couldn't change, and some sort of deep-ridden guilt about Gosalyn and her husband's death that LP didn't quite understand and which Drake refused to explain. "Today of all days, you're allowed to let your thoughts get the better of you, right?"

Drake gave his old friend a warm smile. "Maybe. Let's have another drink, shall we?"

Just as Launchpad opened the refrigerator to get another round, an explosion so near and so powerful that it shook the walls and floors nearly threw both of them out of their chairs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes: **Double update this week, both because there will _not _be one next week, and also because I felt these chapters worked better together than they did apart. Thank you for the reviews so far! I always appreciate them!

* * *

**Chapter 3**

"Did you see it? Did you see it Gramps?" Jack hollered as he burst through the front doors at home, racing down the hallway to the kitchen where Drake sat glued to the television set, throwing his bookbag in the corner by the stairs. "The explosion downtown? Did you see it?"

"No, but it damn near made me spill my beer, and that would have been a real tragedy," Drake remarked, not looking away from the screen.

"If only St. Canard U wasn't so far away from downtown," Jack lamented dreamily as he slumped down into a chair next to Drake.

Drake shot him a sardonic look. "The only reason a crazy old man in a station wagon wasn't part of the melee downtown is because St. Canard University isn't anywhere near there. Ambulances and fire trucks be damned, if I'd thought you were down there - "

"Oh, I wasn't!" Jack assured him with a grin as he slung an arm over the back of the chair, looking on beatifically. "Just would have liked to be there, that's all. In the fray. On the scene. Where all the excitement was."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear any of that."

"I can't even remember the last time anything remotely interesting happened in this town," Jack said

"You didn't miss anything, believe me," Drake said, turning back to the television. "One explosion is about the same as another. It's a miracle no one was killed."

"What was it?"

"An explosion at the Nikomedes Chemical Laboratory. An accident."

"Are you _sure?" _Jack said, drawing out the last word, raising an eyebrow. Drake gave him a flat look.

"Are we playing detective now? Do you remember our talk this morning?"

"Yes," Jack said, a bit defensively. "Just seems a little odd, that's all. I thought Nikomedes normally just does environmental testing. You know, checking water samples to make sure nothing's contaminated, stuff like that. We went on a field trip there in high school. Just doesn't seem like they'd be using any of the type of chemicals that could create such a powerful explosion like that." A moment passed with Jack considering this, and then it was as though a switch was flipped in his head and he made a motion as if he'd suddenly remembered something terribly important. "Oh! Newspaper!" he cried, standing and sorting through the piles on the kitchen counter frantically.

"Didn't know you were such a news hound, kid," Drake commented sardonically as he watched Jack rip through a stack of bills Drake had spent all morning organizing before visiting LP.

Jack let out a triumphant cry as he finally found the crumpled newspaper and opened it eagerly, scanning the headlines. "Ha! Here it is!" he boomed, his eyes having lit on a small paragraph in the 'incident/crime' section. His face fell almost immediately and he clasped the paper shut and threw it down on the kitchen table. "Smart asses," he muttered as he sank back down into his chair.

Curious, Drake grabbed the paper and opened it, finding the article Jack had been reading. He shook his head. "You wouldn't know anything about this one, would you Jack? _Ms. Evaline Wagner reported a mugging to St. Canard police early this morning, describing how an attacker leaped from the shadows and grabbed her purse. Seconds later, 'some idiot in black'_ – her words, kiddo – _attempted to subdue the mugger, only to end up being shoved backwards so hard by the mugger that he tripped Wagner, causing her to fall in the mud. The purse was not recovered. _Well!" Drake said brightly, shutting the paper. "Good thing you were in studying for your test, eh?"

"People have no appreciation for good Samaritans," Jack muttered darkly.

"Never mind that, kid. Let's get some dinner."

Grandfather and grandson ate silently, doing more poking at their food than eating it. Jack cleared the table and set to work washing the dishes while Drake dried them and put them back in the cupboards. Drake could feel that there was something Jack wanted to talk about it, and hung around the living room browsing through a science magazine waiting for the kid to make the first move.

Jack stood in the middle of the living room and awkwardly cleared his throat. "Um, Gramps?"

"Hm?"

"I…I just happened to come across an old photo album today," Jack started, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking at the floor as though something quite interesting lay down there. "You know, just doing a little closet cleaning…"

Drake put his magazine down. The kid never cleaned anything, and knew there was no 'just happened' about it. He shifted in his seat, trying to appear interested. "Really? Bring it down here, let's take a look."

"Well, I guess if you _want _to…" Jack drifted off, trying for all the world to appear apathetic to the idea. He was still a teenager, after all, and never wanted to look too eager to hear 'boring family stories.' Nevertheless, he took off at a trot up the stairs to get the album. Drake sighed and settled back into his comfortable chair. He never understood exactly why Jack wouldn't ever just come out and _ask _him about his parents, to tell him stories or share memories. Perhaps it was too painful to ask and doing it in a roundabout way such as this was the only way Jack could feel comfortable asking the questions he undoubtedly had. The kid had pride and ego on almost the same scale that Drake had once had, so perhaps Drake understood why Jack always had to create an excuse to reminisce about the past. Jack probably figured that's what old people liked to do in their free time anyway, Drake thought dryly.

Ten minutes later, they were both hunched over a photo album from early in Gosalyn and Thad's marriage. For the umpteenth time, Drake told Jack how his parents had met ("Gos was doing some freelance work for SHUSH, which is where your dad worked, of course"), how his father had asked his mother to marry him ("He thought fireworks would be romantic, and I'm sure it was, until one of the fireworks went rogue and set the bush next to them on fire"), how his father had first found out his mother was Quiverwing Quack ("Gos was so tired one night when we came back that she fell asleep in costume on the couch. Your dad came down the next morning and called the police because he didn't recognize her!"), about the time they found out they were to have a baby ("Your father was so happy that he ran down the street, telling every stranger he met; your mother, being your mother, set off rockets in the backyard while blasting Led Zepplin, leading to the police being called"), and told him about when he was born ("Your father had already passed out in the waiting room, which was a good thing, seeing as how Gos probably would have taken his head off if he'd been in the delivery room. She had a high tolerance for pain but a very low tolerance for people telling her things like 'It'll be all right!' while feeling like her lower half was going to break in two"). He'd told Jack all of these stories hundreds of times, but never tired of telling them, and Jack never tired of hearing them. Stories and memories of Gosalyn and Thad were all Drake and Jack had left, and they both knew it. Jack had accidentally "found" this photo album dozens of times, leading to long conversations with his grandfather like this one.

The clock struck eleven and Jack had begun to yawn. He hadn't gotten any sleep the previous night and desperately needed some now.

"I think you need some sleep, kid," Drake observed as he carefully shut the photo album.

Jack scratched his head and yawned. "That's all right. I have an early class tomorrow anyway."

Drake studied his grandson carefully for a moment then patted him on the back affectionately. "I love you a lot, kid," he said. "And I'm glad I've got you."

Jack became very still and silent for a moment before offering softly, "It's been ten years tonight, Gramps."

"They were both so proud of you, Jack," Drake said truthfully. "Their last thoughts were of how much they loved you. I know. They told me so."

Jack nodded, trying to will the tears not to come. He wasn't sure how his grandfather could be so strong, or how his grandfather could always seem to sense when Jack needed to talk about his parents and know exactly what he needed to hear. "I miss them," he said quietly.

Drake pulled his grandson into a hug on the couch. "I know, kiddo. I do too."

"Someday…someday I'm going to ask how it happened," Jack whispered. He shut his eyes, knowing that although it had been ten years, he still wasn't ready to hear the details yet. He could pursue petty criminals in the streets, spend cold nights on stake-outs, even fight if he had to – but not even he felt brave enough yet to hear the whole truth. "Not now. But someday."

Drake felt himself break out into a sweat. He hugged Jack tighter. "I promise I won't lie to you when you do, kid," he responded gently, and meant it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Later that evening, after Jack had gone up to bed, Drake silently made his way over to two hopelessly out-of-date easy chairs in the corner and sat down in one, letting the silence of the room fill his head. Tonight of all nights, the eve of his daughter's death, his dilapidated lab should be the last place he wanted to be, and yet, it seemed to call to him somehow. It was the last place he and Gosalyn had shared a moment together before her death, and the first place he visited after finally getting out of the hospital after weeks of being in traction. Drake looked slowly around the living room, his hand poised to strike the head of the statue that would take him to the lab. So many memories in this small space made up of nothing more than bricks, mortar, carpet and paint; good memories, bad memories, some he wanted to remember, some he'd rather forget entirely. With a small sigh, he hit the statue, sending him careening towards the lab, emerging unscathed in the empty space lit only by the moonlight filtering in through the towering windows.

He hadn't actually used the lab since that night ten years ago. In fact, he hadn't even moved anything, meaning that stacks of paper, coffee mugs now cracked with age, and bits of discarded equipment lay haphazardly around the room exactly as they had that night. Although he'd visited the lab since then, Drake took care never to touch any of those things, wanting to keep everything exactly as it had been. He limped over to a large window, looking up at the full moon hanging in the sky, obscured slightly by the tops of nearby sky-scrapers. Drake placed his hand against the cool glass of the window, remembering the way he and Gosalyn had stood in that exact spot so many times, the older duck pointing out constellations and nebulae in the sky for an awe-struck little girl.

"I miss you so much, kiddo," Drake said softly to the darkness. He grimaced painfully. "And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Gosalyn. If I'd known...oh, kid, I would have done everything differently that night if I'd only known," he whispered.

Ten years ago, Drake had never heard of the LRTM device, short for Long Range Terrestrial Manipulator, but more popularly known as the Scorched Earth Ray (or "Scorchy" as Megavolt had idiotically dubbed it, Drake thought to himself, unamused). It had been a collaboration between seven of the worst supervillains in the city - Megavolt, Bushroot, Liquidator, Tuskerini, Steelbeak, Quakerjack and, naturally, Negaduck. The Scorched Earth Ray could be concentrated on any area of terrestrial Earth - be it land, lake or sea - and render it uninhabitable for decades: stripping the land of the ability to grow anything by creating toxic levels of chemicals, the air unbreatheable by poisoning the immediate atmosphere, the water deadly to those creatures living in it or relying on it in some way, killing and poisoning everything in its path. It was the systematic destruction of life itself if the inhabitants didn't bend to the will of whoever operated the LRTM. Fear, of course, was the most powerful persuasion tool in the world.

Drake didn't claim to understand all of the mechanics behind the thing, even now. Besides that, while there were certain villains in that line up who seemed to fit with the overall mission at hand, Drake was mystified by the others. For instance, why the hell would Bushroot be interested in a device capable of wiping out entire rainforests in a matter of seconds? Why would Liquidator have any interest in entire tracts of land devoid of any moisture whatsoever? What the hell were Quakerjack and Tuskerini even doing there? What did they hope to gain from it all? The answer didn't occur to Drake until he was face to face with all of them.

The villains didn't join forces simply out a desire to control the world. That was a big part of it, certainly, but more than that, not a single one of them wanted to be on the outside of the unstoppable team they'd become.

Better to be on the winning team, even if it went against what few morals you had, than to be alone as the loser in a world now controlled by your enemies.

Drake and Gosalyn had instantly grasped the implications of a device such as the LRTM. The entire world could be held hostage by these madmen. Cities, countries, entire _continents _could be scrubbed off the face of the Earth on a whim without as much as a second's notice. They could render the whole planet unlivable, transform it into just a hunk of burnt out dirt floating in space, if they so chose. Everything – absolutely everything – was at stake.

Darkwing and Quiverwing didn't hesitate for a moment.

Gosalyn's husband, Thad, was more scientist than hero, part-nerd and part-strongman, an interesting combination to say the least. A SHUSH agent by day, and – well, a SHUSH agent by night as well, Thad was able to tag along with Darkwing and Quiverwing without anyone being the wiser as to the masked protectors' true identities. He wasn't much for fighting (although he would step in the moment he thought his wife needed help), but instead was their idea-and-gadget man, something Drake had longed for in a crime-fighting companion. So, when Thad had identified the power source for the LRTM, and had concocted a way to destroy the power source without taking half the city with it, the three-strong team immediately got to work.

And then. And then, and then, and then…

Over the years, Drake and Gosalyn had had many conversations about what their careers paths could mean for their lifespans. Wills and final wishes were updated yearly, attended to as carefully as the best manicured garden in the most well-off neighborhoods. They'd spoken seriously about What Could Happen, but always with the hope that it Never Would. Drake had always assumed, as all fathers do, that he would go before his child, that if push came to shove he'd be willing to give his life for his daughter's without hesitation or second guessing, that she would be attending his funeral rather than he attending hers. When Jack was born, some part of Drake hoped beyond all reason that his daughter would, at the very least, leave the truly dangerous escapades to himself and the police. But she had believed that sometimes the best a parent could do for a child was to go out and fight for a safe world in which their child could grow and thrive in peace. It was a philosophy Drake was intimately familiar with.

The power source for the Scorched Earth Ray was in a deep underground cavern, inaccessible without proper codes and clearance. Fortunately for them, Thad's specialty at SHUSH was as a codebreaker, and the codes had not taken long for his well-honed mind to crack. Once inside, it was only a matter of reversing the power streams to overload the system and destroy it for good. All was going well until the Magnificent Seven, as Drake had sarcastically called the seven supervillains who surprised them in the cavern, appeared and ordered their private security to remove Darkwing, Quiverwing and Thad. Unbeknownst to the seven criminals gloating around them, Thad had already inputted the necessary data into the system to reverse the power stream, which would then cause a chain reaction resulting in a stupendous explosion, ending the LRTM's reign of terror before it had begun.

"_Take this to the powerstation right outside these doors," _Thad had whispered to Darkwing quickly, shoving a piece of paper into Darkwing's hands and pointing to a wall of controls just visible from outside the doors above them. _"These codes will instigate the power conversion and we'll have about thirty seconds to get the hell out of here." _

"_I'm not leaving without you two," _Darkwing had protested vehemently as the private army of soldiers began to steadily move towards them.

"_Quiv and I have to keep these guys busy while you input the codes. Just do it. We're right behind you," _Thad whispered back, thumping Darkwing on the shoulder good-naturedly.

"_Go, Dad! We don't have much time!" _Gosalyn hissed at him, taking a fighting stance. _"Please! This is our only chance!" _

Darkwing took a deep breath and began to plow his way through the henchmen, jumping on one of their shoulders and grabbing a railing above their head, swinging himself up onto the platform that led out of the cavern. Several henchmen dove towards him haphazardly, and Darkwing dodged them expertly, smashing their heads together and knocking them out cold. He raced to the end of the hall, past the heavy metal doors, running as fast as his feet could carry him. Once at the controls, he typed in Thad's code as quickly as he could. The entire control panel lit up in a dark red color, which Darkwing hoped meant that the power conversion had started. He pressed a button on his wrist walkie-talkie that connected him with Gosalyn and Thad.

"_All right, now get the hell out of there!" _he shouted frantically as he could see the seven villains catch sight of him through the open doors at the end of the hallway.

Suddenly, a high-pitched siren screamed to life and Darkwing's heart sank to his feet as the heavy metal doors leading into the cavern swung shut in under a second, sealing in Thad, Quiverwing, and the Magnificent Seven. _That wasn't supposed to happen! Not here! Not now! _Darkwing thought to himself, beginning to panic.

"_No!" _Darkwing cried to no one in particular, racing towards the doors as a countdown sequence began by a computerized voice over the intercom.

"_Thirty seconds to power conversion," _the computer's calm voice rang through the hallway.

Drake found a panel of controls near the door, and began typing in whatever snippets of Thad's entry code he could conjure up from memory. _"Thad!" _Darkwing screamed into his wrist walkie-talkie. _"Thad! What is the entry code?" _

"_No good, boss," _Thad's voice could be heard over the scratchy connection. _"The entry codes only work when the system isn't in an emergency state." _

"_Then what do I do?" _Darkwing shouted back in a frenetic voice.

"_You get the hell away from those doors, that's what you do!" _Gosalyn's voice drifted up from the walkie-talkie.

"_Twenty seconds," _the computer's voice again was heard.

"_Gosalyn! Honey, I'm going to keep trying! I'm going to get you out of there!" _Darkwing shouted back, beside himself in agitation, forgetting in the heat of the moment not to use his daughter's real name. He grabbed the only weapon he had on him, his gas gun. Looking at the heavy metal doors in front of him, he knew that his little gun would be no match and no use in this situation. He threw it at the doors as hard as he could, roaring in frustration. He ripped the panel from the wall, hoping that by scrambling the wires, the doors would fly open, letting his daughter and son-in-law escape before the unthinkable happened. When that didn't work, he gave up and simply tore at the door hinges in rage. They wouldn't budge. An absurd thought born of the situation rattled in his head – _How could these doors POSSIBLY be stronger than my desire to save my Gosalyn? _he thought uselessly to himself.

"_Ten seconds." _

"_Gosalyn! Gosalyn!" _Darkwing called into his walkie-talkie. _"Where are you?" _

"_Dad?" _The sound of his daughter's voice cut through all of the noise around him. _"Tell Jack to be good. Tell him – tell him that we love him." _Her voice cracked on the last few words and Darkwing sank to his knees in front of the metal doors, the full realization of what was about to happen hitting him with the force of a speeding freight train.

"_Five seconds." _

"_Sweetheart, I'm so sorry – "_

"_Three, two – "_

"_I love you, Dad." _

Those last four words, those last four most beautiful words Drake had ever heard, seemed louder and clearer than anything anyone had ever said to him. When the explosion came and Drake was lifted from the floor for what seemed an eternity, his entire life with his little red-head streamed in front of him, as real as anything he'd ever touched, smelled or heard. Softball games. Hockey games. Barbeques on Saturday afternoons, just she and him and LP in the backyard on a sunny day. Her first date, dressed up and nervous, looking like the prettiest girl in the world. High school graduation, parties and well-wishes. The first time she'd apprehended a criminal on her own, and how strange Drake felt, both elated and terrified that now his daughter was on the same path as he. Her wedding day, watching her having her first dance with Thad as newlyweds. Jack. Holding Jack for the first time. Watching the way Gosalyn watched Jack as the little guy lay in his blankets looking up at his mother, her eyes and his, identical. Just now, before coming tonight, having one last family dinner, laughing and talking, all together, his family, whole and complete.

All gone in a second. All gone because of him. Drake remembered closing his eyes before the force of the explosion was over, and wishing it would take it with him.

Drake swallowed hard, coming back to reality, standing by the big empty window, a tear rolling down his cheek as he leaned heavily on the cane he'd needed every day since that night ten years ago. His sightless eye followed his good one in gazing up at the moon. "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," he repeated quietly in the bare room. "I am so sorry."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

It had been a lovely morning.

Except, of course, for the killer robotic lawnmower from hell.

"Honestly, I ask that kid to do _one simple thing _around here," Drake muttered to himself the next morning, surveying his wilting roses the way one might inspect the losing battalion after defeat. He dragged the garden hose from the side of the house irritably, turning the spigot on full blast and aiming the nozzle of the hose at the rose bush threateningly. "Any last words?" he growled playfully before opening the nozzle full tilt, dousing the flowers with the cool water.

"Well hey neighbor!"

_Oh God, not this morning, _Drake immediately thought to himself dourly. That voice could only belong to one person and one person only. Death and taxes might be the only constant in other people's lives. For Drake, it was death, taxes…and Herb Muddlefoot.

"Giving the girls a little drink this morning, hm?" Herb called cheerfully, one arm draped over the fence separating their yards.

"I think you'll find roses are genderless, Herb," Drake pointed out a little tersely as he fruitlessly wished the water would come out of the hose more quickly. A tidal wave would do nicely if it meant he could finish this up a little more expeditiously.

"Oh, I don't go in for politics there, Drakester," Herb prattled, scratching his expansive waistline. "So how 'bout that explosion at Nikomedes yesterday, eh? Heard it caused quite the excitement downtown."

"Chemical reactions happen, Herb. Was there something I could do for you?" Drake asked, with thinly veiled annoyance in his voice.

"Just couldn't help but notice your grass was getting a little long. I've got just the thing for it!"

"Always the salesman, eh?" Drake remarked wryly as he turned the water off. The malnourished roses would just have to wait. Drake dusted his hands off and shook his head. "I don't need anything, really, Herb. It's Jack's job to – "

"No sales, no gimmicks, and no fooling, Drake-o! My little Honkster whipped up something pretty special the other night. Did a beautiful job on my yard." Here Herb made a sweeping motion across the little piece of earth that was his backyard. "In under ten minutes, his little contraption did the job that takes me four or five hours to do!"

"Really?" Drake asked in confusion. "It takes four or five hours to mow your lawn?"

"Well," Herb admitted sheepishly, kicking the ground. "I gotta stop every few minutes to have some of Binkie's famous lemonade. Hydration is important, Drakester."

"Sure," Drake agreed drolly, crossing his arms in front of himself. Talking to Herb Muddlefoot was like talking to a puppy; entertaining at times, but not particularly enlightening.

"Anyway, I bet Honk wouldn't mind showing you. Let me get him."

Before Drake could protest, Herb had already turned to go inside. For a moment, Drake seriously pondered if he could make it back inside the house before Honker showed up with whatever nightmare contraption he'd managed to devise this time. For all of Herb's talk of his "little Honkster", Gosalyn's childhood buddy had grown into a tall, lanky adult, still sporting coke-bottle glasses and a dubious grasp on social interaction. He worked for Hercules Industries, a company that made things like vacuum cleaner motors and washing machine spindles, devices that weren't terribly interesting but would nevertheless throw the civilized world into chaos without them. For whatever reason, Honker had chosen to never leave home, which not only meant that he seemed to have a limited social life (and therefore copious amounts of time to work on side projects), but also had a captive, if unwilling, audience in his neighbor Drake. Drake couldn't help but detect a pattern in using Honker's inventions; it seemed every time he agreed to let his home be the guinea pig for some new gizmo created by Honker, Drake inevitably found himself filing a homeowner's insurance claim for something. If nothing else, his insurance agent had some interesting stories to tell.

"Hi, Mr. Mallard," a nasally voice came from over the fence.

"Honker, how many times do I have to tell you? Just call me Drake," Drake said in an exasperated voice as he turned to find Honker standing nearby, grasping something with his left hand. "You aren't ten anymore."

"Sorry, Mr. Mall – I mean, Drake. Old habits die hard."

"Well, so do vices. What is that thing?" Drake exclaimed, jumping back slightly when he caught sight of the demonic looking machine at Honker's feet. Black and bulky with a large antenna planted unceremoniously on top, it was the very picture of "not consumer friendly."

"I call it Mr. Whacker," Honker said proudly, pushing his glasses up his beak.

Drake stared at him flatly for a moment. "That's…certainly an evocative name. What does Mr. Wha – what does it do?"

"It's an automated lawnmower. I got the idea from my mom's robotic vacuum cleaner. I thought perhaps the same principle could apply to garden maintenance as carpet cleanliness. It was relatively simple to design and engineer. An autonomous convenience device such as this runs on the same components that make indoor cleaning appliances, such as vacuum cleaners, possible. Only, of course, we're talking blades instead of brushes."

"And that doesn't worry you?"

"Not at all. There are safety mechanisms, Mr. Ma – Drake. It isn't as though an automated machine sporting _blades _could conceivably be approved for consumer use without safeguards in place," Honker explained with a snorty laugh, as though the idea were preposterous and Drake even more so for suggesting it. Drake raised an eyebrow.

"All the same, Honker, I think I'll pass – "

"Please, Drake? It needs more dry runs before I can pitch the prototype to any agencies," Honker pleaded. "It's done our lawn successfully a half dozen times. The chance of failure is relatively low. I can show you the specifications if you like."

Drake never was particularly adept at ignoring puppy dog eyes from anyone. He nervously glanced at the Muddlefoots' yard. It _did _look well maintained, the grass cut evenly with no signs of horrible destruction anywhere. Drake sighed, some part of him knowing he would regret this. "All right, Honker," he conceded brusquely. "But _only _if you stick around to monitor it and shut the damn thing off if it's about to do anything it shouldn't. Agreed?"

"Absolutely!" Honker promised brightly.

Drake retreated into the house as Honker revved up Mr. Whacker. He poured himself a cup of coffee and resisted the urge to look outside, not wanting to witness anything that might send him into a homicidal rage. He settled down into his easy chair and sifted through the newspaper. When ten minutes had passed with no sounds of carnage coming from his backyard, Drake got up slowly and looked out the windows to find that his yard…actually looked pretty nice. Whereas Jack, with the impatience for chores inherited from his mother, normally left enormous swaths entirely unmowed, making it appear as though their backyard was just one huge mullet, Mr. Whacker seemed to have done a very good job. With as much astonishment that Honker's invention had worked as happiness that it had, Drake stepped out into the backyard and nodded to Honker.

"Very nice, Honker," Drake called to Honker above the noise emanating from Mr. Whacker.

Honker beamed in response. "Thank you, sir!"

Drake watched the box-like contraption move steadily across his yard, working its little heart out, and felt some sudden fondness for the strange looking apparatus. Perhaps Honker had, for once, stumbled across a good idea. It could be a boon to people like Drake, who found it difficult to mow the yard, and for people like Jack, who just plain hated doing it. Maybe now Honker could make his way in the world, get his own place, find a sweet girl –

Drake's musings were cut abruptly short as he heard Honker shout, "Rogue lawnmower! Drake, get out of the way!"

"Wha…?" Drake sputtered, looking up to find the sweet little device suddenly barreling down on him. If doohickeys had a face, surely this one would be wearing a maniacal grin. With a yelp, Drake stumbled out of the way, only to watch Mr. Whacker positively decimate the rose bushes he was so lovingly giving life-sustaining water to not twenty minutes before. It then began to batter the exterior wall of Drake's house, backing up and running into it repeatedly, as Drake watched it, expressionless. Honker darted to it and flipped the emergency shut-off switch and then carefully stole a glance at Drake.

With a heavy sigh, Drake stood up, brushed himself off, and said simply, "Back to the drawing board, kid."

"I'll replace the rose bushes, Drake, I swear – "

"It's 'Mr. Mallard' or 'sir', Honker," Drake reminded him crisply as he went through the back door and slammed it shut behind him. He slunk against the door and gritted his teeth, noting he was suddenly exhausted. His energy levels weren't what they used to be, and after that little rush of adrenaline stemming from the threat of imminent death-by-automated-lawnmower, all he wanted in the world was a short nap on a soft couch.

He sank down onto the plush sofa in the living room, grateful for a quiet respite before Jack arrived home from school, wherein his peaceful house would transform into a giant stereo system blaring music whose lyrics Drake couldn't even begin to fathom – _What on __earth__ does a milkshake have to do with sexual provocation of males in a courtyard? _Drake wondered to himself as he lay down comfortably, shutting his eyes and allowing himself to drift off.

The dream began as it always did. He was back in the cavern on that horrible night when Gosalyn and Thad lost their lives, standing in front of the panel next to the heavy metal door that had sealed their fate. Immediately, as if thrown into the scene from a great height, Drake was back in place, the rush of emotions coming fast and strong as he tried every combination he could think of.

"_Thad! Thad! What is the entry code?" _Drake screamed into his wrist walkie-talkie.

"_Dad, you have to listen to me!" _Gosalyn's voice shouted back to him. _"The explosion is not what everyone thinks it is!" _

"_It'll still blow you to bits, kid!" _Drake shouted back, furiously punching in any number he could think of – birthdays, holidays, the date he'd signed the adoption papers for Gosalyn.

"_No, Dad, listen! The explosion at the chemical laboratory! The one downtown!" _

"_What?" _Drake yelled back as the countdown over the intercom continued its march towards the inevitable.

"_You need to look into it, Dad! Hear me? You need to find out what's going on before it's too late!" _

"_It __is__ too late!" _Drake cried deliriously. _"No matter what combination I try, it's always too late! It always ends the same way!"_

"_Five seconds." _

"_Sweetheart, I'm so sorry…" _

"_I love you, Dad." _

Drake sat straight up in a cold sweat, breathing raggedly. The dream always ended like that, with Gosalyn's final words and a sense of monumental failure on Drake's part. He put his face in his hands, biting back a frustrated sob. He sat, straight and tense as a rail, for a good five minutes before his breathing returned to normal and his heart stopped racing. He hated that dream. He hated it with everything he had in him. And yet, each time he had it, it was slightly different. Gosalyn's words weren't ever the same except for the last four.

_Gosalyn tells me things, _Drake had said to Launchpad. _That isn't normal, is it? _

He got up off the couch, standing shakily, his palms sweaty. Jack chose that moment to explode through the door, already shouting up a storm.

"Gramps, you'll never _believe _what I found out today! I met some girl in my chem class that's interning at Nikomedes, and _she _says that no one in the company is giving them a straight answer as to why there was that explosion yesterday! Nothing! Nada! It's hush-hush! Gramps! Are you even listening to me?"

Jack finally glanced in the direction of Drake and his face fell.

"Gramps, what – are you all right?" he asked, rushing to Drake and placing his hands on Drake's shoulders. "What's wrong?" Comprehension dawned on him. "The dream again?"

"It's all right. I'm fine, I'm fine," Drake answered falteringly, not looking his grandson in the eyes. "Just – Just having one of my pains again, that's all. Some aspirin and I'll be right as rain."

"Are you sure?" Jack said, looking worriedly at Drake. "Do you want to sit down? I'll get some aspirin. Want coffee?"

"Sure, sure," Drake answered, sinking back down onto the couch, more to give Jack something to do other than fuss over him rather than anything else. "That's great, kid. Thanks."

Jack disappeared into the kitchen to get coffee and painkillers, two staples in Drake's life, as Drake exhaled slowly from his seated position. If dream-Gosalyn wanted him to look into Nikomedes then he would, although even if he'd stumbled across anything significant there wasn't much he could do about it. He was about as useful as Honker's inventions, but maybe he could forward the information onto someone in a position to do something about it.

His mind began to churn through its old pathways of pondering motive, means and opportunity for the criminal element. It had been a long time since he'd attempted it, and no doubt he would be a little rusty. But a preliminary investigation wouldn't hurt, even if it was just to make his subconscious mind shut up. As Jack handed him a mug of coffee and a few aspirin, Drake silently decided it was time to use the old crime lab in the tower for exactly what it was – his own private research facility.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Later that evening, Jack sat at his desk up in his room, biting on the end of a pencil and scowling sullenly at the trigonometry textbook open in front of him. He had several complicated problems to solve before class on Monday, but no matter what he did, he couldn't keep his attention on his work. His mind kept flitting to the conversation he'd had today with the Nikomedes intern and how odd it was that even after a very public explosion, the company had refused to say what it might have been or even pinpoint exactly where in the building it had taken place. For liability reasons, it wasn't entirely unusual for large companies such as Nikomedes to refuse to _speculate_ on causes immediately after an accident, but it _was _unusual to flat-out refuse any requests for absolutely any information at all, especially from its employees. Jack leaned back in his chair, trigonometry now forgotten. Something was being covered up and hidden within the walls of Nikomedes, but what? And perhaps more importantly, why?

Jack got up and threw open his closet doors, digging for black clothes before he caught himself and stopped, his grandfather's admonishments ringing in his head. They'd argued about it so many times over the course of the past two years that Jack could practically recite word-for-word what Drake would say if he caught him. Jack flopped down on his bed, belly first, in frustration. Despite what Drake thought, the last thing Jack wanted to do was hurt his grandfather in any way; Drake had more or less raised him, and Jack knew that he owed the older duck everything. But the same calling that had beckoned Darkwing Duck and Quiverwing Quack from the shadows of their domestic lives called inside of Jack as well. It was impossible to explain to anyone who hadn't felt the calling, but it was real nonetheless.

Which is why Jack absolutely had to get into the lab at Nikomedes. He couldn't rest until he had.

And there was only one person in the world who might be willing to help him.

"Hey man!" Jack burst emphatically as a beat-up door opened a crack to reveal Launchpad on the other side. "How's it going?"

"Jack? What're you doing here?" Launchpad asked in confusion, holding a hot mug of soup in one hand and a newspaper under his left arm.

Jack slipped in quickly and threw a friendly arm around LP. "You remember how, several months ago, I made a vague promise to hang out with you at some hypothetical point in the future? Well, no time like the present, LP! How about a drink?"

"Little young to drink, aren't you Jackie?"

"Drink? I meant a drive. How about a nice drive around town, eh? It'll be fun! We can…drive, and talk about…stuff. In the general direction of downtown. C'mon! It'll be great!" Jack declared as he elbowed LP playfully in the ribs. "All those beautiful ladies in St. Canard won't know what hit 'em, am I right?"

LP smiled and patted his newspaper. "You go ahead. I've got a mug of soup and the Miss Etiquette column. I'm fine." LP looked down to catch Jack's all-black outfit. "Geez Jackie, is wearing all black the new thing at St. Canard U?"

"What?" Jack asked surprised, following LP's gaze down to his clothes. "Oh uh, no, no," he simpered. "No, it's just…I'm going through a…beatnik phase at the moment. You know, hep cats and poetry slams and all that."

LP gently extricated himself from Jack's arm and smiled. "Thanks for stopping by anyway, Jackie. I don't get to see much of you now that you're so grown up."

Jack brought himself up to his full height, puffing his chest out a little in pride. "That's right! Nineteen years old. Just think, in another few years, I'll be able to rent a car and not pay an exorbitant insurance fee!"

"Nineteen! I remember you when you were just this big," LP said, holding his hand out low to show Jack's former height. "Why, I remember when your _mom _was just that big! You remember the workshop? And being in the tower? You were always so interested in whatever modifications I was doing to the Thunderquack. Sometimes you'd stick small parts in your pockets and take 'em home, remember? Boy, the number of times we nearly died in a fiery crash because Jackie had lifted a cog or a gear somewhere!" LP laughed, trying to decide if the memories of that were sentimental or just plain horrifying.

Jack tittered nervously, a little embarrassed. "Yeah, I-I guess I was always kind of a troublemaker – "

"I'd think I was going nuts because I could never find anything," LP reminisced, still chuckling. He reached in Jack's pocket playfully. "And all along, it'd be in Jackie's – what's this?" From Jack's pocket tumbled a mass of black cloth. LP picked it up and turned it over in his hands, looking at it in bewilderment. "Is this…is this a ski mask, Jackie?"

Jack grabbed it back quickly. "It's nothing, LP."

"It's almost May. What do you need with one of those this time of year?"

"Don't worry about it," Jack grumbled as he shoved the hat back in his pocket.

LP studied Jack carefully for a moment. "What's going on, Jackie?" he asked quietly. "The way you're dressed, the ski mask; you in trouble, kiddo?"

"No, LP," Jack answered honestly, turning to leave. "It's just…there's something I have to do. I was hoping you could help, but – well, maybe I shouldn't drag you into it."

"Hold on a minute," LP said, closing the front door which Jack had just opened. "Tell me what's going on."

Jack sighed and refused to look up at LP in the eye. "Look, I – I need go downtown. To Nikomedes Chemical Laboratory. I have to find out what that explosion was all about yesterday."

"That sounds dangerous," LP observed, scratching his temple. "Why in the world do you want to do that?"

"Because something's going on down there. Something they're covering up." Jack set his jaw. "And I'm going to find out what it is. Are you coming with me?"

"Me?" LP laughed softly. "Heh, no. And I don't think you should, either."

"I'm going anyway," Jack stated obstinately, moving towards the door at a march. LP reached out and grabbed the back of Jack's shirt and gently dragged him back into the living room. LP might have been older, but he was still built like a tank and strong as an ox.

"You aren't going anywhere," LP commanded mildly with a touch of amusement in his voice as the young duck struggled ineffectively against his grip. "You want to worry Drake to bits?"

"Of course not! That's why I didn't tell him where I was going!" Jack explained in an exasperated voice as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Just sit right down there," LP said, steering Jack by the shoulders into one of the overstuffed chairs. Jack reluctantly collapsed into one, crossing his arms in front of himself, as LP sat down on the footstool directly across from him. "Why are you doing this, Jackie?" he asked earnestly. "After everything that's happened, why would you want this for yourself?"

"Maybe it's _because _of everything that's happened that I want this for myself," Jack shot back stubbornly.

"That's not a very good answer, kid, and you know it."

"Look, I came over here for some help, LP. Are you going to help me or not?"

"Help you do what, get yourself killed so Drake has one more terrible memory to add to his collection? No thanks, I don't think so," LP snapped uncharacteristically.

Jack got up slowly, sighed, and stuck his hands in his pockets. "LP, I'll level with you. I need your help. I don't think I can pull this off by myself." He rubbed the back of his head, a slightly embarrassed flush coming to his cheeks. "And…to be honest, I've never broken in anywhere before. Ever. I…I don't really know how," he admitted quietly.

"Not going to be much use as a vigilante then, are you?" LP pointed out.

Jack grimaced. "Well, certainly no one's offered to _help _me!"

"Like who?"

"Like…like Gramps!"

"Being a vigilante isn't exactly what most parents want for their kids."

"Gramps did," Jack countered with a steely look.

LP smiled and shrugged. "I don't know about that, Jackie. As I remember it, Gos had a pretty hard sell in front of her when she wanted to follow in DW's footsteps. They argued about it for _years _before DW finally realized she was going to do it whether he liked it or not. But I wouldn't say he ever _wanted _her to do it."

Jack's expression faltered for a moment. He had always assumed the unstoppable partnership between Darkwing Duck and Quiverwing Quack had been mutually agreed upon by Drake and Gosalyn, that there had never been a second thought in anyone's mind as to who would eventually take over for Darkwing. Nevertheless, Jack stood up as straight as he could and declared, "I'm still going, LP."

Launchpad watched the younger duck leave a moment later, heading out into the darkness with only a backpack to keep him company.


End file.
